STEP SEVEN

Remember: Either You Are At Dinner or You Are Dinner

Major Channing had taken to coming home very late, or very early in the morning, whichever way you care to look at it, to avoid encountering the rest of his pack. This was not uncommon behavior, especially since the household had accidentally obtained two small children. But he had become more pointed about it.

He had an excuse, as there was a lead in some important BUR business. Those missing Sundowner bullets had, it appeared, been sold to a vampire. So, his professional attentions were now focused on England’s hives. This entailed paying formal calls and making very delicate inquiries himself, as none of his agents had enough social standing to visit vampires with impunity. So, it had to be Channing, much to his annoyance. He was, to put no small claw on it, uncomfortable around vampires. Unfortunately, nothing more had come of even his best, most polite enquiries, which drove Channing to distraction. It was beyond frustrating that he’d been driven to socialize with vampires and still nothing. He’d been polite, for goodness sake. Polite!

Channing was beginning to think that if the blood-suckers had sunk their fangs into his bullets, he might never get them back. He tried to be a little happy that at least the assets were in supernatural hands, and not in those of the Separatists. Nevertheless, he would have liked to have had some assurances one way or the other.

Major Channing hated dealing with vampires – they smelled abominable, were more arrogant than he was, and unconscionably sadistic. It put him in a terrible temper. He had a propensity to bite heads figuratively, because he could not do so literally (not without causing a great fuss, too much paperwork, and no little indigestion). His favorite vampire memories were those abroad, when his old Alpha, Lord Vulkasin, had given him free rein to tear his way through Europe, where hives were ostracized and it was open season on vampires (quite rightly). They tasted awful, vampires did, but Channing still loved to hunt them. As a wolf, he was never happier than with his jaws around the white neck of a blood-sucker, especially a French one. Even as a moon-mad beast, Channing remembered being caged like a dog. For that alone, he would never forgive them, but he had further reason to hate.

Oh, he had learned to bow and scrape and suck up (not like that) with the English vampires, because he must and because they were different from those on the Continent. London vampires dictated high society’s rules, so Channing played nice by default. But French vampires? Or Italian? Channing imagined tearing into their necks with such ferocity, he might sever heads from bodies. He imagined it in great detail because he knew the exact particulars of such a maneuver, because he had done it, once, to a vampire queen. The rush of satisfaction had been so all-consuming, it was as close to a sensation of real joy he had felt since he’d been turned into a werewolf.

All this to say that Channing hated vampires. Dealing with them made him even grumpier and more sarcastic than usual. And his feelings of annoyance were certainly not exacerbated by a blue-eyed American girl with stones in her heart and honey in her mouth.

God, she tasted sweet. And forbidden. She had yielded with such willingness. As though she knew he needed her surrender almost more than her embrace. He wanted to consume her. Instincts cried out to inhale her – blood sweet and rich, skin soft and warm, the smell of rum and raisins and sugar all around him. She was exactly everything a vampire queen was not, and in that profound difference he might find peace. He’d spent so long wallowing in petty thoughts of revenge – he was all sharp points, harsh and churlish. Sometimes, he wondered what he might become if that did not make up the lion’s share of his personality.

Channing had come over all lily-livered, choosing to investigate missing bullets and visit hives (which he loathed) over social engagements (which he had once loathed but now craved).

Not strong enough to entirely resist her presence, Channing slipped into the hat shop on occasion, simply to smell her. Knowing he could control his baser instincts with his Alpha present, but parched for the raisins in her breath and the lapis in her eyes.

Biffy was waiting for Channing as he closed the front door of Falmouth House behind him. Channing snorted at him. It was close to dawn and the Alpha should be in bed with his Beta like any decent Biffy.

“I worried that perhaps you would not make it back in time.”

“I always make it back.”

His Alpha was sitting in the drawing room, curtains drawn against the rising sun and everything dark around him. He was strong enough to take daylight if he must, even with his youth, but he could not stand it for very long.

Channing could barely withstand a moment of sun and rarely bothered to test himself anymore.

“The Iftercasts are coming to dine here, the night after next.”

Channing said nothing in response to this and did not move to join his Alpha in the drawing room.

“Faith will be with them.” Biffy answered the question Channing had not asked.

Of course she will. That is why you invited them.

“You will be there, Channing. This is not a request. It is an order from your Alpha. If nothing else, you owe the girl common courtesy, as you have not dignified her with an explanation for your erratic behavior. Your hot-and-cold treatment of her has been shabby in the extreme.”

Channing hung his head and still said nothing. There was no excuse. His Alpha was correct.

“Tell her what was done to you, Channing, all those years ago. She has suffered her own version of abuse – she will not be unsympathetic. You need not protect her from it. Then, when you leave her because you are not strong enough to stay and fight to overcome the past, she will at least understand that it was not her fault. You owe her that much. Tell her.”

“Or you will?” Channing’s tone was bitter.

Biffy stood and walked to him, fine-boned and refined. A dandy. And a werewolf. And an Alpha.

My Alpha.

“You know I would never betray a confidence, even though your history was told to me by others. But I cannot make promises for the rest of the pack.”

“Lyall,” growled Channing. “You will have Lyall do it.”

Biffy straightened, proud and commanding. “It should come from you.”

Channing left him then, walking slowly through the hallway and up the stairs towards his quarters.

Biffy said to his retreating back, “You will be at this dinner, Gamma.”

“I will,” whispered Channing, to the shadows of the staircase. Knowing his Alpha would hear him no matter how softly he spoke.

Accordingly, the Iftercasts and their American cousin went to dinner at Falmouth House, in Greenwich.

This was widely remarked upon.

The London Pack did not keep an Isopod steam conveyance, so when one pulled up and disgorged a family of mortals, one of whom was noted to have been courted by a pack member, bets were placed.

A reporter, haunting the street nearby, took note of the elegance of the dinner dresses and number in the party. Mr Iftercast was in attendance, a clear sign pointing towards marriage negotiation. Miss Wigglesworth looked very fine, if a tad pale, in her gown of peach silk. That fact would appear in the Mooning Standard gossip rags the next day as “peach, clearly indicating anticipation and eagerness on the part of the young lady.”

Notes were made as to the whiteness of her neck, the trimness of her waist. Notes were not made about the firmness of her jaw and the hardness of her eyes.

Faith thought her dress very daring: the neckline was low and the bodice pleated in such a way as to be extremely flattering. Her pallor was the result of discomfort. She wasn’t certain, after a week of so little contact directly following such profound intimacies, how she could calmly sit at table with Major Channing.

The marks on her neck had faded and with them the last of her confidence. Perhaps he did not want her and had never wanted her. Maybe it had all been some kind of game. Chase me. Chase you.

Tonight was likely to be an awkward business.

Falmouth House was impressive, appearing more like a very large cottage than a true manor house. It was unexpectedly welcoming and homey, for all its size. It must boast many rooms, considering the entire London pack, its clavigers, and assorted staff all called it home, and yet it felt intimate. It was situated on rising ground outside the village of Blackheath, and with the heath itself nearly surrounding it. It was still technically part of London, Mrs Iftercast assured Faith, but rather more towards the outskirts than a lady of high fashion would prefer. Faith supposed wolves needed a place to hunt in their bestial forms (as opposed to the hunting they did in drawing rooms). Faith did not consider herself a lady of high fashion, so she liked both the house and its situation.

Most of the pack members were present to welcome them, including Major Channing. A few were out of town or on business that could not be avoided.

Of those present, Faith had already met Biffy, Professor Lyall, Mr Bluebutton, and Mr Quinn. As to the rest, they were all large, handsome gentlemen of various iterations. Packs apparently did not bother to try to balance the company at table. At Falmouth House, the men vastly outnumbered the women and likely always would.

Faith tried to remember all their names, but found only Mr Hemming and Mr Ditmarsh stuck in her head. Mr Ditmarsh because he was so ridiculously handsome, like the swoon-worthy hero of some Gothic romance, with long dark hair like a pirate and piercing hazel eyes, and Mr Hemming because he was by far the most convivial. He appeared to be something on the order of a country bumpkin, built to till fields and strip his jacket off under the hot sun. His open, friendly countenance resulted in everyone who met him liking him immediately.

The food was simple but very well prepared and prettily presented. There was meat in every dish, and the werewolves ate mainly that and left any vegetables to the guests.

The conversation was stilted at first as the courses were brought out.

“Where, exactly, is your family from, in America, Miss Wigglesworth?” asked Mr Quinn.

“Boston.” Faith hoped they would not ask too much about her family history.

“And do you miss it there?”

“Not especially.”

“Stop prying, Quinn,” barked Channing, utterly without provocation. “She’s here now.”

A pause.

Faith glanced up from her food. Biffy’s expression was all amusement, Professor Lyall’s resignation, and the rest of the pack’s nervousness. She did not know what Channing’s expression was; she refused to look at him.

Mr Hemming tried next. “And are you enjoying London, Miss Wigglesworth?”

“Yes, more than I thought.” Faith smiled at him, grateful for his willingness to face the major’s unreasonable ire. Really, what was Channing about? Just sitting there making everyone else uncomfortable?

Faith pushed on, doing her part to encourage conversation. “It’s such fun here and has been unexpectedly welcoming. Which I’m sure can be attributed to Lord Falmouth’s influence and my dear cousins’ gracious hospitality.”

“How do you find it different from your past society?” Quinn asked.

“Balls are much more frequent here,” said Faith.

“Or perhaps here you are simply a great deal more popular,” praised Biffy from the head of the table.

Faith could feel her face get hot. “I think it’s actually that here there’s more opportunity to enjoy oneself.”

“Have you plans for when the season has ended?” asked Mr Ditmarsh.

“Oh. No. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” I was supposed to be married or at least engaged. I cannot go home.

“She’ll stay with us, of course,” said Teddy, staunchly.

“I cannot possibly continue to trespass on your hospitality. You’ve been too kind already.” Faith said what she ought and trembled with it.

Mrs Iftercast look pointedly at Channing. “Perhaps it will not be a concern.”

“I should go home.” Faith tried to keep the misery out of her voice.

“We shall see,” said Biffy. “I think we could find you a good match. One of my boys, perhaps.”

The gentlemen arranged about the table all looked highly uncomfortable, but none of them would contradict their Alpha. A few side-eyed their Gamma with trepidation.

Biffy looked mischievous. He gestured at Mr Bluebutton. “Adelphus here is, of course, quite elegant and cultivated. One might think him respectable, but he has the reputation of a philanderer, so perhaps not.”

The werewolf in question rolled his eyes. “No worse than Channing, and we all know—” He stopped abruptly, as if someone had kicked him under the table.

Biffy moved on to his next victim.

“Quinn is an utter sweetheart, and punctilious by nature, but his temper occasionally gets the better of him, particularly around vampires.”

“I say!” said Quinn. “Me? Channing is ten times worse if blood-suckers are—” Another abrupt cut-off.

Faith was beginning to be entertained by the show. Biffy was trying to amuse her at the expense of his long-suffering pack. It was rather sweet of him.

On his host’s left, Mr Iftercast gave concerted attention to his meal in a desperate manner that suggested he had absolutely no idea what to do under these particular circumstances. Teddy and her brothers were all wide-eyed and interested in this teasing game, maybe seeing some of their own sibling rivalries amongst the werewolves. Mrs Iftercast looked partly amused, partly horrified.

Biffy continued with a nod at Mr Ditmarsh, who stopped eating, crossed his arms, and stared at his Alpha – as if daring him to do his damnedest.

Biffy said, “Ulric here might be a little too old for you, Faith dear, and a great deal too autocratic. Although perhaps you could bring him down a peg or two?”

Faith giggled.

Ulric said, clearly entering into the spirit of the thing, “I’d be delighted to give her the opportunity to find out. I enjoy a challenge.”

Channing grumbled, “Enjoy a challenge, do you? Outside, right now, wolf form, try me.”

Mr Ditmarsh hid a smile and tilted his head to show his neck to the Gamma. He clearly knew his rank. He was also clearly delighted to see Channing getting more and more annoyed, as each subsequent pack member was offered up as a candidate for Faith’s affections.

Faith was beginning to enjoy it, too, as it became clear the only werewolf truly made uncomfortable at the table was Major Channing. Although it was slightly at her expense. Still, the idea of a werewolf buffet, all because she had a reputation as a tail-chaser, was a fair cop.

She was not enjoying Channing’s reactions, because she was determined not to let anything that impossible man did affect her anymore. But the gentle banter between the Alpha and his pack was adorable. Very family-like and comforting.

She tried for pert and innocent. “And what about Mr Hemming? What flaws could he possibly have?”

Hemming blushed, which Faith didn’t think werewolves could do. It was boyish and amiable.

Biffy chuckled. “Oh, you like Hemming, do you?”

Channing growled, actually growled, at the dinner table.

Now it was Faith’s turn to blush.

“No concerns there, my dear, everyone likes Hemming. He’s easy to like, aren’t you, Ian?”

Hemming grinned, pleased by the praise and the affection in his Alpha’s voice. “So, Alpha, what’s wrong with me, then? Won’t I make a good husband for this charming young lady?”

“Of course you will, dear, you’re quite lovely.”

Faith glanced down at the Beta at the other end of the table, only to find Professor Lyall eating quietly with a small, indulgent smile on his face. Clearly, he was entirely unthreatened by his Alpha’s obvious affection for the rest of their pack.

Is that what it’s like to be loved by a werewolf? So confident in his adoration and fidelity that you can watch him tease others without rancor? Or is that a Beta trait? Not for the first time, Faith wished she knew more about werewolf pack dynamics and courting rituals.

“But Hemming is very occupied with the children at present.” Biffy formulated a well-crafted excuse. “He has no time for romance.”

Mrs Iftercast jumped desperately on that opening. “Oh, yes, you have two infants in residence, I’ve been given to understand. Do please tell us about the dear little things?”

Biffy was willing to temporarily give over his game of Torment Channing in the interest of common courtesy. “My pleasure. Gracie came along with the nanny we hired for Robbie, our foundling. So, we find ourselves looking after two of the darlings. Or Mrs Whybrew does. Powerful presence, Mrs Whybrew, but a very good nanny. Robbie’s recently started talking. And Gracie crawls everywhere and gets into everything.”

“Are you fond of children, my lord?”

“Fond enough, fond enough. It helps when they are not one’s own, I feel. Not that Robin isn’t considered part of this pack, but it’s mostly Quinn and Hemming who take an active interest in his upbringing.”

Mrs Iftercast took that as an opportunity to probe. “Not Major Channing?” She turned to glance pointedly at Channing, who was obviously in a fine temper and as a result ought to be ignored. She quickly returned her attention to Biffy.

“Channing’s relationship with children is… complex.”

Mr Bluebutton, looking crafty, undid all of Mrs Iftercast’s good work. “So, what about Channing then, Alpha, for our Miss Wigglesworth here? Would he not do in a pinch?”

Biffy gave him a gleaming look of approval. “Oh, I don’t know, what do you think?”

Comments instantly erupted from all of the werewolves now that permission had been given.

“He’s near as bad a flirt as I am, although his preferences are more confined.” Mr Bluebutton was clearly referring to having been accused of philandering.

Channing said, “You forget yourself, Adelphus, that was decades ago.”

“Oh, of course, you’ve been a positive monk since when? Eighteen-seventy or so, when Lady Maccon came to the pack and you insulted her to her face.” Adelphus sneered at him. “Self-flagellation, perhaps?”

“And don’t even get him started on vampires. He’s much worse than I am,” added Quinn.

“To be fair, he has a greater right to be,” said one of the other werewolves, Faith thought his name was Zev or Zeb or something odd like that, coming to his Gamma’s defence.

“Good point,” conceded Quinn.

Faith was wildly curious. What exactly had the vampires done to Channing that justified such ire?

Canning stopped eating, crossed his arms, and glared about the table. “Would anyone else like to assassinate my character at dinner?”

“Ooo, me!” said Hemming.

“Yes, Hemming, why am I unsuitable?”

“Well, you don’t like children at all, simply because, you know, that happened.”

One of the others said, “Which is why he doesn’t want to marry, either. You know, because of her.”

Murmurs of agreement.

Her, thought Faith, her who? She glared at Biffy, suddenly annoyed by the whole thing. What on earth is going on here? What are you trying to tell me?

Biffy was looking pleased with this outcome.

Faith began to get a little angry about the whole thing. It seemed almost cruel to expose Channing thus, even as he had been unkind to her and neglectful. His private feelings and reasons, his past hurts, should stay that way, private and in the past.

She said, staunchly, “Well, thanks, for my part, gentlemen. Your Alpha continually effacing you all as not good enough flatters me greatly. Although it obviously doesn’t flatter any of you.” The table chuckled.

Faith gave a thought to throwing Teddy to the wolves, diverting attention that way. Encouraging them to offer themselves to her friend in a similarly ridiculous manner. But Teddy’s engagement to Mr Rafterwit (and his stables) was now widely known (it had appeared in the papers yesterday); no doubt the werewolves were honoring that commitment by not flirting with her.

(Mr Rafterwit had taken knee to hay bale when he made his offer. He’d been showing her about his stables at the time. Teddy said it was the most romantic thing ever and that she was incandescent with happiness. Mr Rafterwit promised her the next filly out of his favored stallion for her very own, and swore they would spend at least half the year in the countryside. Teddy was in ecstasies.)

Biffy said, “Surely, one of you might do?” As though he were some matchmaking mamma and it hardly mattered which. “I hadn’t even finished the table, Miss Wigglesworth. Don’t you find any of my pack handsome enough to suit?”

“Very. All of them.”

Biffy nodded. “And, of course, there is also Rafe, who is away and very appealing if you like the rough and ready. And Riehard. Well, Riehard could be anything you wanted him to be.”

What if I want him tall and blond and moody, with icy eyes and a sour disposition? What if I want him to throw me up against the wall and press against me with his whole body, as if he needed me to breathe? Would he send me rocks and take me to geology meetings? Would he learn my history and not care that some other man had taken me first?

“Enough!” said Channing, at last.

Biffy sat back, expression smug.

Faith hid a smile.

In classic wolf fashion, Channing’s Alpha sat at the head of the table. His Beta, however, sat opposite, at the foot, a position ordinarily occupied by the lady of the house.

Channing preferred this arrangement; it meant Lyall and Biffy couldn’t bill and coo and share private secrets during meals. They still made eyes at one another, engaging in that silent form of communication which all couples develop over time and reminds those who are not entangled of what they are missing. Channing thought such displays of affection were vulgar, emotional wealth worn wreathed about a man like too many strands of pearls.

Channing looked at Faith, wondering if he could do that with her, right now. Silently communicate. And what would he say if he could?

But she was not looking at him.

Which of course made him burn with the need for her immediate attention.

His Alpha had warned him. He had known he would be in for it at this gathering. So, here they all sat, the pack backing Biffy, worrying at Channing as if he were a juicy bone to pick at.

It had worked. Of course it had worked. He’d lost his temper and barked at them all.

Fortunately, the bickering and pseudo match-making had carried them through the entirety of dinner. They adjourned to the drawing room for wine and light petits fours instead of a pudding course.

Channing watched Faith’s lithe figure as she was led through by Professor Lyall. He thought her dress was very daring and impossibly flattering. There was nothing to distract or detract from the delicacy of her bone structure or the trimness of her waist. The gown’s neckline was low, the decoration a simple cream ribbon.

He wanted to rip it off her.

Naturally, the pack arranged it so he was seated next to her.

At that juncture, the pack put in a concerted effort to distract the Iftercasts and give Channing and Faith some measure of privacy. Adelphus and Biffy held Mrs Iftercast and Teddy’s attention with gossip of the ton, making up outrageous stories about who was engaged to whom and whether it was a love match or merely a polite arrangement. Lyall and Quinn talked matters of politics and business with Mr Iftercast in serious tones. Ulric and Hemming chatted amiably with the Iftercasts’ male children on inconsequential matters over cards. There was much laughter among them.

Zev and Phelan, the most reserved of the pack, made their excuses and went about their evening’s business. Channing wished he could do the same, but he was under orders to remain.

So, he sat in one corner, out of human hearing, with Miss Wigglesworth. To whom he had indeed been rather shabby.

He owed her an explanation or at least an apology.

However, because she was staunch and forthright and oh so darling, Faith took the opening afforded by their comparative isolation before he could. Brave, his Lazuli. Shining with courage, not afraid of anything, not even him.

“You’ve reconsidered my history and decided against me, sir?”

Is that what she thinks? I have made her doubt herself further.

“Never that.” He resisted pressing her hand.

“You’re afraid I’d insist on matrimony? I promise, I wouldn’t.” Faith lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I’d take you however I could get you.”

That jolted him with need. He noticed his marks on her neck had faded, and he hated that. He wanted her under him and writhing, trying to escape, helpless. His in every way. The scent of her filling him, the body of her being filled.

“You have no idea what you offer.”

“You forget, sir. I know exactly what I offer.”

“You should be demanding I marry you. Your family should have me horsewhipped for what I did to you in that garden. There should be a gun with silver bullets to my head and you waiting for me at the altar.”

“Is that what you want?” She was clearly confused.

He took a breath. “Whichever way I took you – one night, one season, or all of your eternity – I would be no good for you. I want you. God’s teeth, of course I want you. Look at you. You are perfect.”

She leaned in, eyes bright. “Is it your nature that makes you give up before we’ve even started? I promise, I’d run from you every night. Chase me. Mark me.”

Channing felt himself tighten full-body, swollen and straining with want. He feared the others might smell his arousal. I am no good for you. He couldn’t speak.

“You gave me rocks. You took me to a scientific lecture. You make me need so much. It isn’t fair to let me drift like this. Where will I anchor if not to you?”

“I warned you I was a cad.”

“You don’t think you’re good enough for me?”

“I don’t think I can change enough to suit you.”

“Then let me go. Cut me loose. Truly stop this.”

But you are mine. His heart beat the refrain – mine mine mine – pushing old dead blood through tired immortal veins. He was exhausted and lonely.

“I am trying to,” he said.

“Try harder,” she snapped back.

Channing did not realize until later that night how alike they were. How, this time, he had thrown down the gauntlet to her. The island of his loneliness was temptation, summoning Faith to swim towards it. For she had been treading water a long time and saw him as a place of refuge, unexplored. Faith knew he was no safe tropical island, rich with greenery and wholesome fruit. She knew Channing’s soul was a granite boulder standing stiff and solitary in the midst of an abandoned lake.

But she would take that as a challenge, his Lazuli. Granite, to her, was full of many fascinating things – minerals and crystals and shards of trapped light. A rock was never only a rock to a geologist.

She had told him to let her go and to run. But she was really saying, I will track you. I will hunt you. I will follow. And you will smooth the water with your own ice so that I may walk across it.

And Channing realized, for the first time in ninety years, that he might.